Page 8 of Seeds of Christmas
This is important for my academic future.
More important than family?
Oh, Rhiannon, I’m very disappointed in you.
I stare at the message, feeling the familiar weight of guilt settle in my chest.
Then I silence my phone and go back to my packing list.
Thermal underwear. Check.
Wool socks. Check.
Extra batteries. Check.
Emotional armor for spending an entire trip with Carter Wolfe while pretending I’m not attracted to him? CRITICAL.
Because the absolute last thing I need right now—fresh out of a relationship with a controlling, manipulative man who made me feel small—is to develop feelings for another charming guy who won’t even remember my name.
I’m going on this trip to find myself. To prove I can set boundaries. To show my mother I don’t need her approval.
Not to moon over some frat boy who probably still doesn’t know who I am.
Even if he is unfairly, devastatingly, infuriatingly hot.
I add one more item to my list: Get over stupid crush on Carter Wolfe.
Then I highlight it in red and underline it twice.
I can do this.
Probably.
3
CARTER
The apartment still smells faintly like beer and burnt popcorn. Jake swears it’s “ambiance,” but I’m ninety percent sure it’s from his laundry pile.
He’s sprawled across the couch in sweatpants and a University of Mountain Springs sweatshirt, controller in hand, laser-focused on the TV.
“Bro, if you don’t get over here, I’m going to beat this level without you. Again.”
“I’m basking in the glory of not having fifty guys stealing my food all the time,” I say, digging through a box of cereal straight from the counter. “Give me a second to appreciate domestic freedom.”
Jake snorts. “You mean the freedom to live in an apartment that looks like a serial killer’s lair?”
I toss a handful of Cheerios at him. One bounces off his forehead.
“That’s what gratitude sounds like? I rescued you from the sticky floors and keg-sweat air freshener, and this is how you repay me?”
“Dude, you begged me to move out,” Jake says, pausing the game. His grin fades just enough to be noticed. “Said the house was… too much.”
I shrug, pretending to check my phone. “Yeah, well. It was. Too many dudes who think Febreeze counts as hygiene.”
We both know hygiene has nothing to do with it. I probably won’t clear up those Cheerios on the floor until they get crushed and the crumbs start bothering me in my socks. Or until ants carry them away.
He studies me and tilts his head. “You mean too many memories.”
